


Drink Up Me 'Earties

by runningsissors



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Harry Potter Next Generation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningsissors/pseuds/runningsissors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She smirks in the way that exudes bitterness and takes a sip of her drink. "How foolish of me, of course you don’t remember who I am."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drink Up Me 'Earties

**Author's Note:**

> Written for sandystar88 for 2011 hp_nextgen_fest @ livejournal

It’s a cold, blustery day. Teddy can feel the harsh whip of the wind against his cheek like a slap to the face, and pops the collar of his coat to cover his neck. There’s hardly anyone out on the streets today, and those he does see are bundled up even more than he is as they fight against the wind.

It’s a sight that makes his bones ache for the warmth of spring. Like the flowers, Diagon Alley seems to wilt under the relentless English winter. The street vendors are gone for the season, and  _Fortescue’s_  has locked its door, not to return until the snow is gone.

With the Christmas madness long over Diagon Alley, and those who work on it, fall back into a deep sleep that will last for at least two more months.

For years the only memory Teddy had of the Alley was that of a sea of witches and wizards ambling in and out of shops; the sweet smell of fresh bread and spices sold by venders; and noise. There was noise everywhere you went. The Alley was alive, pulsing with life like a heartbeat itself.

It wasn’t until Teddy had begun his apprenticeship at Ollivander’s that he realized Diagon Alley wasn’t always this way.

It seems to get harder with each year he works at the shop, to watch the changing of the seasons slowly take away what he loved most about Diagon Alley.

He rounds the corner at the end of the street, passing Quality Quidditch Supplies and the apothecaries, and ducks into the doorway of the Leaky Cauldron, taking note of the sign hanging by only one chain over the door. His skin feels numb as he steps inside; the blast of warm air from within making his fingers tingle.

"Hello love," Hannah calls brightly over her shoulder, pouring a dark looking drink for a scruffy looking fellow.

"Your sign’s gone crooked again," he says, stomping slushy snow from his shoes, "shall I fix it for you?"

"Oh, that blasted wind," she mutters, leaning over the counter toward him. "No, I’ll do it later. You look like you could use something warm."

Teddy nods, "it’s bloody freezing out there. If I didn’t like you so much, I would take my lunch break somewhere closer to the shop."

The Longbottom’s had been good to Teddy for as many years as he could remember, especially Neville, and he and his small family had become dear to Teddy’s heart. The Potter’s would always be like family to him, but as the years had passed, Teddy found that the desire to be completely surrounded with love and affection had worn off as he got older. Maybe it was just the symptoms of an only child, but he never found he craved the persistent presence of people like his godfather seemed to. And with his break-up from Victorie a few years ago, his association with the Weasley’s seemed to diminish more as well. He had no hard feelings towards them all; it was simply that with the now strained relationship between him and Bill Weasley’s eldest daughter, this uneasiness seemed to carry onto the family.

He couldn’t relate to any of them, and then he’d met Neville and heard his story, and something just seemed to click. Maybe it was because when Neville saw Teddy, Neville had told him he saw a little bit of himself. Saw a boy trapped under the legend of his fearless parents, with an aging grandmother to protect and care for him when it should be his mother and father.

They were connected in a way that others couldn’t understand. The understanding that Bellatrix Lastrange had taken from each of them something more precious than anything else in the world.

Hannah laughs, messing his already wild hair. It’s a bright shade of yellow today, an attempt to make his general disposition a bit sunnier, he supposes.

"Well I’ll get you some soup, shall I?"

"Cheers," he smiles, watching her head into the small kitchen, as he takes a stool at his usual spot at the bar.

The  _Leaky Cauldron’s_  more or less empty today, which is unusual considering it’s a popular choice for shop workers to take their lunch break. There’s a few ancient looking wizards crowded around a table by the large staircase, their head all bowed down in deep conversation. The scruffy looking man is still sitting at the other end of the bar pounding back his drink, and as Teddy scans the room again he notes a pudgy woman feeding bits of something to her equally pudgy cat; a copy of what has to be  _Witch Weekly_  open in front of her.

Hannah emerges from behind the thick wooden door a few moments later, a large bowl of bubbling creamy green soup in her hand.

"What is this?" he asks hesitantly, poking at it with his spoon.

"Zucchini and leek," she says with a smile. "You’ll like it." He knows better than to go against a decision Hannah makes, so he nods and swallows a small mouthful.

Hannah’s never wrong.

 

 

+

 

 

"You look like you’ve had an awful day." Hannah says softly with a sympathetic smile when Teddy takes a seat at the bar.

"I have." He replies roughly, folding his arms across the tabletop, and laying his head down. "The old man seems to be going crazier with everyday," he mumbles into the sleeve of his shirt. "I spent the entire day going over missing shipping orders for the past two months, only to find that he  _hadn’t_  actually ordered anything."

Hannah shakes her head, pouring sherry for a few middle-aged witches. "He is an  _old_  man, Teddy. This is to be expected."

Teddy lifts his head and scowls, "He can barely hold a quill these days. How is he supposed to run a business?"

"Have you spoken to him about taking on more official responsibility?" She asks, wiping her hands against the apron forever tied to her waist. For years now Teddy has basically been running the shop single handed as Ollivander’s health and age caught up to him. The once brilliant, wily man had been reduced to a shaky, senile old man, who on days couldn’t even remember Teddy’s name, let alone details of his business. To everyone it was obvious that Teddy would take over, but the shop was Ollivander’s and Teddy had no right to make decisions on his own.

"No," he mumbles, "it just never feels like the right time."

She gives him a look that reminds him of one of the many faces his grandmother has for disappointment. "What’ll you have?"

"Paulopabita," he traces a water ring stain and takes a sip of his green draught. The pub’s crowded with people tonight. Teddy likes this best; when there’s music and noise and laughter.

"I’ll take the strongest thing you’ve got," a young witch says in an exhausted voice, sliding into the stool corner to him. Her smart dress robes look dishevelled, with pieces of hair escaping from her up do. Everything about her screams exhaustion. A small glass filled with a dark amber liquid, firewiskey no doubt, is set down in front of her and she downs it in one large gulp; practically slamming the empty glass back on the table top when she’s done.

"One more please," the girl rasps, sucking back a breath and squeezing her eyes shut tight for a moment as the burn passes. It’s not called firewhiskey for nothing after all.  Hannah frowns, hesitating for a moment before filling the glass once again.

Teddy shakes his head before tipping the content of his glass back. He certainly can relate. Someone says his name, and when he looks up, the young witch is staring at him with a look of embarrassment.

"Hullo," she mumbles, pushing loose hair from her face. "I, uh, I didn’t even see you there, which is surprising considering you’re, well, you."

His brows furrow. He’s trying not to look like he’s confused, but it’s hard. She clearly knows him, and yet he couldn’t have picked her out of a crowd for the life of him. Nothing about her looks familiar to him.

After a silent moment she nods, smirking in a way that exudes bitterness and takes a sip of her drink. "How foolish of me,  _of course_  you don’t remember who I am."

"No no," he says quickly, cheeks feeling warm. "I was just in my own thoughts for a moment there. H-how are you?" He can’t believe he doesn’t know who she is.

He goes to speak, but she cuts him off. "I’m a cousin of Victorie. I’m Percy Weasley’s daughter."

"Oh" he says, blushing slightly. "Right," he adds, trying to recover, "yes of course, you are. I read about your engagement to in the Prophet. Congratulations!"

She takes another sip, that sad smirk present again. "No, I’m Lucy. His  _other_  daughter."

His feels his cheeks flush again. Merlin’s beard, he wishes the floor would swallow him live. She downs the rest of her glass, and then reaches for her purse.

"Wait," he quickly says, laying a hand on her arm to stop her. "Let me buy you one more. I’m mortified beyond belief, so buying you a drink is the least I can do."

She shakes her head, smiling shyly. "I’ve got to run, but thank-you for the offer."

 

 

+

 

   
It rests gently on his kitchen table, the cream parchment so innocent looking. What it says inside is anything but.

An invitation for Sunday brunch at the Burrow.

He feels a lump growing in the back of his throat. It’s been a while since he’s step foot in the Burrow; three years to be exact. Three years since he and Victorie had parted ways. No one had said anything to him about the break-up, of course. It had been the stares that had done him in. The looks everyone seemed to give him that showed how disappointed they were. He couldn’t take the feeling like he had let them all down somehow.

They had all set out this master plan for Victorie and him to follow, without actually consulting either of them on what  _they_  had wanted for the future. And now here they were, pulling him back into their world.

"I don’t have to go," he says to the kettle sitting on his stove. "It not like they’re my family. I have no obligation."

Somehow this isn’t reassuring.

 

 

+

 

   
  
The tiny house is so overstuffed with people, Teddy can barely breathe. There’s not a free place to stand anywhere. The family seems to have multiplied since he last attended a Weasley function if that’s at all possible.

He can feel the sweat dripping down the back of his neck, and eyes the back door like it will be his sweet salvation. Eventually it becomes too much and he has to duck out. It’s just too much; too many eyes, too many questions.

The cold, silent air surrounds him as he shuts the door behind him, and he welcomes it with opened arms. There are not many days that are as beautiful as this. The sky is clear and bright, snow glitters like the scales of an Antipodean Opaleye. When he scans the backyard he notices a figure standing by the garden. Dishwater blonde hair and old mucky gum boots kicking gently at a mound of snow. A cigarette precariously pinched between her index and middle finger and her shoulders hunched as she shivers in the cold. Her posture reminds him of a woman from one of those black and white muggle films his grandfather had owned.

He grins despite his best measures not to, and walks up beside her.

"Hello,  _Lucy_." She jumps, pitching her cigarette into the dead bushes and clutches at her chest.

_"Merlin’s arse,"_  she gasps, throwing a sheepish smile at him. "I thought you were my mum, or worse, my gran."

He laughs, eyes squinting against the reflection of the sun. "Mind sparing one?"

She smiles, digging a small silver case from the large pocket of her cardigan, and passes him one.

It leaves a cool taste of mint on his tongue as he exhales. The smoke curling in wispy patterns as it leaves his mouth. It’s been bloody ages since he last had a fag. He use to smoke all the time at school, but then again, everyone did at that age; even the Ravenclaws.

"Please don’t tell anyone," she says, tucking a chunk of hair behind her ear. "I mean- it’s not like I smoke on a daily basis or anything, but it relieves the stress you know?" she turns to him, tired eyes and a sad smile playing on her lips.

"Already forgotten."

She nods, folding her hands across her chest. "I feel I should apologize," she mumbles. "I’m afraid it might be my fault you got dragged back here. You mention something to one person, and it spreads like a fiendfyre curse."

He shrugs, "It’s not so bad, always a hell of a good meal. You make it seem like it’s Azkaban or something."

She kicks at another pile, "I feel like a school girl when I’m in there. Like I’m an eleven year-old girl again, waiting for my turn at the sorting hat, you know?" She chuckles, throwing a look at him through her lashes. "I’m no more a Weasley than you are."

"Now that’s not true. They’re your family, they love you."

She shakes her head, "the only thing I share with everyone in there is my last name. I have no promising future; no budding family; nothing to my name other than a pathetically minuscule account at Gringotts and the infamy of all my relatives." Her eyes are bright, a deep hazel shade he realizes. "I mean look at my family. My father is one of the highest ranked officials in the Ministry, and my sister is marrying into one of the most prestigious wizarding family in the country, for circe’s sake. No one ever cares about you as an individual, they just care who you’re related to, or the connections you have." She laughs again now, the sound so forced and unreal to him. "Look at me," she sighs finally, "you only seem to run into me when I’m sulking. I’m sorry; it’s rude of me to drop this all on you. You don’t even know me."

He feels dumbfounded. He wants to console her, tell her that she’s not alone on this. But the words are stuck to his throat and they refuse to come out.

Instead he says this. "You look like your mother."

She smiles, but says nothing in reply. He takes that as a good sign.

There’s a simplicity to her that attracts him he realizes as they smoke in silence for a moment. In a family filled with beauty and success, he finds her plainness rather refreshing. She’s young, he thinks to himself, far too young to have this cynical outlook on life.

He takes another drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling.

"I haven’t been here since Victorie and I split up."

"I know," she replies softly.

"It’s extremely uncomfortable. She’s got the arm of a charming French wizard wrapped around her waist, and I show up with a bloody hole in the elbow of my jumper."

She laughs softly and turns to him with a gentle smile. "Let’s go inside, shall we?"

 

 

+

 

 

The soft ding of the front shop door opening takes him by surprise. He’d always imagined something grander for some reason.

Madame Malkin’s looks the same as it always has; dark, ornate furniture and large front windows just as he remembered. Persian rugs from the Middle East cover the floor. He’s overwhelmed by the scent of musky perfume that burns his eyes.

He spots her kneeling on the floor, hemming the bottom of a plump witch’s maroon coloured dress robes. She pulls a pin from a small cushion tied to her wrist, and waves her wand as it stitches a line across the fabric.

When Lucy had told him she was a seamstress, he couldn’t help but wonder how she had gotten into that particular profession.

"I suppose it was just something I was marginally good at," she has said. "Madam Malkin was looking for a new assistant, and I was looking for a job."

When she spots him she smiles shyly, gesturing with her hand for him to wait.

He takes a seat on a small, uncomfortable settee and runs his hands over his knees. His palms are clammy, sweat beginning to form along his brow as he sits in the stuffy, warm store.

He feels eyes on him, and looks around to find an old woman staring at him with a perplexed expression. "You have very strange hair, young man." She states, gesturing towards his head. It’s a vibrant blue tonight; similar to that of a sapphire. "I say, were you naturally born that way?"

He blushes, "No madam, I chose this colour." He scratches at the back of his neck, pulling at a few strands. He could use a haircut. Gran is always after him about it, comparing him to a mop.

She shakes her head, a few muttered words about youth under her breath before returning to her magazine.

A few minutes later Lucy walks over to him, tightening her pony tail.

"Hullo again," she says brightly, "what can I do for you?"

"Nice glasses," he nods at the smart looking frames sliding down her nose, and her cheeks tinge.

"I need them to see up close," she mumbles, pocketing them.

"No, I like them," he says quickly, "They’re, uh, what’s the word? Oh, yes... chic."

She giggles softly, "Was there a particular reason you stopped by?"

"Right," he says, wiping his palms again. "I was on my way over to the Leaky Cauldron, and I wondered if you might fancy getting a drink. With me, that is." He adds, feeling foolish.

He was ever very good at these kinds of things.

"I’d like that," she says with a smile. "I just have to finish up a few things before, if you don’t mind waiting."

"Not at all."

She nods, "okay then, I should be done in about twenty minutes or so. Make yourself comfortable."

He eyes the settee with the loose springs, and the old woman staring at him once again.

"Right." 

 

 

+

 

 

"Another, if you please?" he says, thrusting the empty pitcher of Ale towards Hannah.

She laughs, taking it from his hand and shaking her head.

"What?" he cries in mock offence, "why are you shaking your head at me?"

She eyes him as she fills the pitcher, "you look like you’re certainly enjoying yourself." She turns back to the task in front of her. "And the Ale."

"Now Hannah," he scoffs, presenting her with a sloppy smile, "there’ll be none of that."

"You’re right," she says, placing the now full pitcher in front of him. "It’s not my place."

She tousles his hair, a sea foam green now, and he smiles.

When he returns to the table, Lucy looks at him oddly. "You’re very close with the bar maid," she comments, eyes wide as Ale sloshes over the brim of her mug. "Did you two—"

He scrunches his nose, pouring himself another glass, "No!  _Merlin’s arse_  no. She’s like a mum to me. I’ve been very close with her and her husband since I was a child."

"I think I remember Dad once mentioning that Professor Longbottom’s wife ran the Leaky Cauldron." She brings her mug to her lips and smiles shyly at him. "I’m glad to hear you’re not involved with her."

He grins, his head beginning to feel light. "Oh yeah?"

She smiles at him, glancing up through her lashes as her propped elbows slide closer to him. "Yes, very glad indeed."

He can feel his hands itching to trace the curve of her jaw. He wants to touch her; see her eyes light up like that day at the Burrow. He leans in, his lips so close he can feel her breath on his skin, but she pulls back.

"What are you doing with me, Ted?" She mumbles, cheeks flushing.

"What do you mean?" he thought he was being so clear. Had he read her the wrong way?

"I mean," she says, shifting in her chair, "you’re so exciting and interesting. What are you doing being interested in a girl like me?"

The words come out before he can stop them. "I find your plainness beautiful."

Her face crumples and he could actually hit himself.

"Wait, that came out all wrong." He lays his hand on her arm gently in a reassuring manner. "What I meant to say is that I like you. Very much. Just the way you are."

"Besides," he adds when she begins to grin, "I’m odd enough for the both of us."

She laughs at this, pushing gently at his arm.

He leans in again, his eyes trailing hers as they take him in. "Can I kiss you now?"

She smiles, "that would be nice."

 

 

+

 

 

"Can you pass me the sports section? I want to see if the  _Magpies_  beat the  _Falcons_  last night. I have a pool going with a few guys over at Quality Quidditch Supplies."

"Here," he turns and is met with lips playfully puckered out in front of him. Teddy rolls his eyes, but presses his mouth firmly against hers. Lucy grins, pulling away just as he goes to slide his tongue against the seam of her lips, handing him the missing section of the Sunday’s edition of the  _Daily Prophet_  before bouncing off his bed.

"Aunt Ginny wants us there for eleven, so don’t spend too much longer lounging." She drops her night shirt to the ground and smiles. "I’m going to take a shower, and when I get out I expect you to have proper trousers on."

Teddy rolls his eyes again, "why do I have to go to this again?"

"C’mon," she calls from the bathroom over the sound of the shower coming to life. "Everyone loves you more than they love each other. A Weasley event is empty without your colourful head to break up the sea of red."

He opens the paper, smiling softly to himself.

 

 


End file.
